Emily's Legacy
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Lydia Emily Van Dort, Victor and Victoria's oldest daughter, does not take the story of her namesake, The Corpse Bride, very well. At all.


**Emily's Legacy**

 _If the cat hadn't died, nothing would ever have changed,_ Lydia Van Dort thought for the millionth time. She was convinced of it. Lydia was heading home for the weekend from school, and the long train ride gave her time to think. As if she hadn't been thinking about it all week.

Maybe it was better that she knew the truth. About her parents. About their family. The truth about the kind of man her father actually was.

Hard as it was to bear, as bad a taste it left in the back of her throat, and as heavy as it made her heart, Lydia also couldn't help but believe it was better to know the truth. Comfortable as a lie was, the truth was better.

At least, that was what she tried to tell herself.

It had happened a week ago. Lydia had just had her thirteenth birthday, and she'd been home for the weekend. On Saturday she'd been up early, got lost in a book, and then was late to breakfast. Her younger sister Anne had told her the family cat had been feeling unwell, so when Lydia caught sight of him curled up in his basket in the parlor on her way to the dining room, she'd decided to pet him.

She'd never forget the feel of him. Cold, yes, and stiff, but also the way her very self revolted in the presence of death. She'd gasped and snatched her hand back. After a moment, she'd reluctantly gone to tell her family what she'd found.

They'd buried Boisduval at the bottom of the garden. Anne had cried herself exhausted. Everyone had been oppressively sad, so much that Lydia found it hard to take. They'd all sat in the parlor together that evening, the atmosphere claustrophobic with mourning. Lydia wondered when they were allowed to be happy again.

And then, the story. Father and Mother had clearly meant it to be comforting, reassuring about the nature of death and what came after. The dead bride. The trip to the land of the dead. The dead walking in the streets of their village. Her father's near-marriage to a dead woman. A woman named Emily.

Her parents had looked at her then, so pleased that she knew at last the truth of the person she'd been named for. All they'd said before was that Emily had been an old family friend. Friend! They had given her a middle name in honor of the woman who had stolen her father away from her mother. The woman _her father had wanted to marry_. Just the thought of that made Lydia feel physically sick.

Everyone had been surprised by the way Lydia had left the parlor without a word. She'd been too shocked and angry to talk, and then, the more the story sunk in, the angrier she grew. Away from her family, Lydia had had the entire week at school to stew and fume in private. To tear her initials out of all of her uniforms and clumsily replace them, omitting the offending letter. She had considered refusing to come home this weekend, maybe every weekend. Maybe refusing to go home ever again.

The only reason she was on the train right now was that the school was disinfecting her dormitory after an outbreak of head lice, and the matron said she couldn't stay.

Lydia would rather have had the lice than her family right then.

0-0

Mother and Father were there to pick her up at the train station. It was very late afternoon, very nearly dark. A cool breeze swept dead leaves along the station platform. She was the only one disembarking. Her parents were looking at her carefully, as if she might explode at any moment. None of them spoke much. The silence continued once they returned home. Once or twice she thought Father was going to attempt conversation. She studiously avoided eye contact. Mother just looked a little sad and worried, but she left Lydia alone. Lydia went to bed early and didn't really sleep much.

Instead of sleeping, she stewed. The idea of having to play at being a part of a whole, happy family made her want to tear her hair out. She couldn't pretend everything was all right, that everything was normal. The way her younger sisters seemed to be. Mary she could forgive, because she was only four and had no idea. But Anne and Catherine should know better. The two of them had also avoided her, rightly assuming Lydia was in the mood to snarl and snap at everyone.

But how had they felt all week? What else of the story had they heard? Was there more to it? Something Lydia didn't grasp? Somehow she doubted it. Lydia rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe there _was_ something else to the story. Eventually Lydia drifted off into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, Lydia set off for the village without telling anyone where she was going. She wanted answers, details, and she didn't want to ask her parents. Wanting to appear serious and adult, Lydia put up her hair in a bun and wore her plaid suit with the long skirt. When she checked herself in the mirror, her father's face looked back at her. Before, she'd kind of liked the eerie resemblance. It made her feel closer to her father, since they had so little else in common. It made her feel like the true heir, almost like a son.

Now she had trouble feeling anything but resentment.

Out of the house and off she went at a brisk clip the full mile to the village gates, and then across the square. There she paused, sweating. She brushed her always wayward bangs out of her eyes.

The Everglot mansion rose up before her, as if waiting. Daring her. Grandmother kept to a schedule like clockwork, so Lydia knew she'd be home until just after lunch, when she'd go out on her social visits. So she'd start there. Lydia squared her shoulders and marched up the steps. She rang the bell.

The huge door heaved open, and Lydia peered into the entry. The butler stood there, looking down his nose at her even though they were almost the same height.

"I'm here to see my Grandmother, please," she said.

Before the butler could answer, Grandmother's voice came from the gloom of the hall. "Who could be calling right now?" she asked. "These are not my at-home hours."

"Miss Van Dort, Your Ladyship," said the butler. He stepped aside as Grandmother came to the door.

"What on earth are you doing going about alone?" Grandmother asked, looking Lydia up and down. "How can your mother allow such a thing? I will have the coach summoned at once to take you home."

"No, wait! Please, Grandmother," Lydia cried, stepping forward as if she'd be able to stop that enormous door from swinging shut on her. "I have to talk to you."

Grandmother looked down at her, lip slightly curled.

"I wanted to ask you about when Mother and Father got married," she said quickly, "About the dead woman-"

Grandmother was fast for an old lady. In a blink she reached and grabbed Lydia by the upper arm, tugging her inside. In the same movement she clamped her other hand over Lydia's mouth.

"Hush, child!" she said, her eyes flicking about the entry as though the entire village might be pressed up against the windows.

"Have tea brought to the west drawing room," she told the butler. With that, Grandmother marched Lydia down the corridor, hand still over her mouth.

0-0

"Why, pray tell, do you want to know about that awful business?" Grandmother asked once the two of them were alone with their tea in the drawing room. "What has your mother been telling you? It is hardly a story for children. For _anyone_."

Lydia shifted uncomfortably on the horsehair sofa. Grandmother sat across from her, regal in her armchair. They regarded each other for a moment. It occurred to Lydia that she hadn't ever been alone with Grandmother Everglot before. It was a claustrophobic kind of experience. Grandmother's eyes were like judgmental microscopes.

"I'm not sure I believe them," Lydia said bluntly. "It sounds mad. I know you'll tell me the truth."

Grandmother actually looked pleased at that. She held her head a little higher, and her thin lips nearly smiled.

"There isn't a thing to tell," she said. "Your father ran off with some other woman, an utter scandal in itself, and it drove your mother temporarily out of her mind. We were forced to lock her up."

It felt like Grandmother had punched her in the stomach. Mad? Locked up? That was what Mother had meant by "nobody believed me"? Lydia swallowed.

"Everyone was under terrible stress," Grandmother continued, pouring out more tea. Lydia didn't touch hers. "At your mother's wedding reception there was a mass hallucination. It was dreadful. Your grandfather and I took _days_ to recover. Do not ask me for details."

Grandmother looked Lydia right in the eye, daring her to challenge this version of events. Lydia wasn't about to. Something else had caught her attention.

"Mother's wedding reception?" she asked. Her parents said they'd been married a couple of weeks after the night of the dead.

"Oh, your mother neglected to mention that?" Grandmother asked in return. Her small smile was a bit mean now. "After your father ran off, we were without a suitable groom. As luck had it, a man who was a far better prospect was staying with us at the time. He was quite handsome and charming. Your mother married him."

A tight cold fist closed around Lydia's guts and squeezed. _Both_ of her parents had betrayed the other one? They were _both_ horrible? Lydia didn't think she could stand this.

"But why—how could she have-" Lydia tried to ask. Her voice kept catching embarrassingly.

Grandmother waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, your mother put up a fuss about it, of course. She was still convinced your father was coming back. Once she remembered her duty, however, she went through with the ceremony. A dreadfully dour little frown on her face the entire time, too."

"What happened to him? The other man?" Lydia asked, the pain her guts easing a little at Grandmother's explanation. It hadn't been the same on Mother's side at all. Not a bit.

Grandmother took a moment before she answered. Lydia could practically see her thinking.

"He disappeared," she said. "Everyone said he died. But I did not ask for details."

"Did the hallucinations kill him?" Lydia asked, before she could think better of it. Grandmother looked at her sharply.

"You are not to go about repeating any of this, is that clear?" Grandmother asked, an edge to her voice. Lydia summoned the will to nod her head once.

"Yes, ma'am," she said. Grandmother seemed satisfied, but was still eyeing her beadily.

"I'm sure your mother is wondering where you are," Grandmother said at last, ending the conversation.

Grandmother walked with her down the corridor to the entry hall. Looking down at Lydia she said, without so much of a trace of a smile or hint of pleasantness in her voice, "Do come again, I enjoy our visits."

Sometimes it was hard to tell when Grandmother was being serious.

0-0

Lydia loitered by the statue in the square for a while, absorbing her visit with Grandmother. She stared at her other grandparents' house. The fish statues flanking the front steps seemed to mock her with their flicking tails. Her plan had been to visit everyone. Everyone she could think of who was old enough to remember.

But after what her grandmother had said, she wondered how much she actually wanted to know. How much knowing would actually help, and not just make her hate her parents even more. Lydia kicked a pebble as her eyes started to prick with tears. It wasn't as if she _wanted_ to hate them.

The rumble of carriage wheels on the cobblestones made her turn to look. It was her Grandmamma's carriage, the one she used especially for in-town errands. The golden-brown horse matched the fittings. This carriage did not have advertisements for Van Dort's Fish on it.

Lydia hopped up out of the way as the carriage pulled around. It drew to a stop before her, and Grandmamma leaned out the window.

"What are you doing hanging about alone?" she asked. "You look downright common, hanging around the statue."

"I was, um, out visiting," Lydia replied. That sounded quite adult. "Waiting for you to come home."

"Oh!" said Grandmamma, sounding pleased. "So your father told you, did he?"

Lydia stared. "Uh..." she managed, confused. How on earth could she know about that? And why would she sound happy about Father telling awful old stories? But Grandmamma was still talking.

"Yes, yes, you really _must_ come by, now that you've heard!" she said. "Get in!"

The carriage door swung open, and Lydia hopped in to ride the final few yards to the mansion's front door.

0-0

"This whole parlor set came from the Van Luster Estate, can you believe it?" Grandmamma told Lydia proudly. "In the family for a couple of generations. Members of the most noble families have sat on these chairs! I'm sorry your mother couldn't come with you to see it. _Remarkable_ , isn't it?"

Lydia glanced around. Grandmamma's parlor had been transformed into a chintz nightmare. There was a low-backed sofa, which Lydia sat on, and a set of matching upholstered chairs, one of which Grandmamma had taken. Two plush armchairs with matching ottomans were on the far side of the room. The upholstery was garishly colored, all huge flowers and birds in bright reds, blues, and yellows. Remarkable indeed.

"Mmm," said Lydia. She didn't have the gumption to feign enthusiasm right now.

"You're not actually here to see the new parlor set, are you?" Grandmamma asked, her voice a little sharp.

"No, no, I think it's...great," Lydia said, then faltered. Giving up, she asked, "How could you tell?"

"You've got the same look on your face your father always gets when he's not impressed," Grandmamma replied, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm sorry," said Lydia. She took a sip of her tea.

"Never mind," Grandmamma said, looking cross and offended on behalf of her costly antique parlor set.

There was a brief silence. Lydia stared into her tea, thinking. She'd heard more than enough from Grandmother. What did she think she'd accomplish by asking Grandmamma as well? When it came to getting answers, to gathering up every bit of information, every little scrap she could find, Lydia was tireless. Her persistence and desire to ferret out every tiny morsel of fact that she could won her a lot of high marks at school.

Now, though, her talent was only succeeding in making her more upset.

"Grandmamma," said Lydia at last, knowing she shouldn't but unable to help herself, "Is it true my father married a dead woman?

Grandmamma froze for half an instant, teacup halfway to her mouth. Lydia could see her thinking. Grandmamma did love gossip, even old gossip. But family secrets might be something else altogether.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Grandmamma said, setting her cup down with a rattle. "I don't know where you children get these ideas. Your mother lets you read far too many books."

"Oh," said Lydia blandly. "I suppose Grandmother Everglot was mistaken, then."

Immediately Grandmamma's ears pricked. She leaned forward. "Wait, _she_ told you about that awful business?"

Lydia nodded. Grandmamma pursed her lips in thought, eyeing Lydia carefully.

"Well," Grandmamma said at last, picking up a biscuit, "I suppose it's only right you get _both_ sides of it, who knows what she's been telling you!"

And Grandmamma was off. Lydia heard roughly the same story her parents and Grandmother had given her, minus Mother's marriage and plus the fact that Grandad and Grandmamma had spent all night looking for Father after he'd disappeared. Punctuated with a lot of asides about what trouble Father had caused, naturally.

"The town crier was spreading around a crazy rumor, that your father eloped with a corpse!" Grandmamma paused to brush a few crumbs from the front of her dress before adding, "Turns out it was true. Though they were never _technically_ married, mind you!"

As though that made a difference. Lydia fiddled with the biscuit on her plate.

"Not that your father didn't try," Grandmamma said. She rolled her eyes. "Apparently he thought he needed to convert, if you get my meaning. Wine of ages, indeed. To this day I cannot _believe_ the entire village was just going to sit there and let him top himself!"

"Top himself?" Lydia asked, unfamiliar with the phrase. She picked up the biscuit and took a tiny bite. Grandmamma looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"You know," she said, lowering her voice. "Suicide."

Lydia's biscuit turned to ash in her mouth. With difficulty she swallowed.

"He was—Father was going to-" She couldn't even say it.

"Now, now, he didn't, did he?" Grandmamma interrupted quickly. She shook her head. "Trust your father to go along with something so ridiculous, without even thinking it through! I gave him an earful when I heard about _that_ , believe me."

Lydia had stopped listening. Father had been willing to _kill himself_ to be with another woman. He hadn't even wanted to be alive anymore. He'd been willing to throw everything away for this woman. Absolutely everything.

"Oh, buck up," said Grandmamma, pouring Lydia more tea. "This was _ages_ ago, and nothing to do with you. Why your parents decided to tell you about it, I'll never understand. The rest of us have been trying to forget it ever happened. You should, too."

Lydia stared into her teacup. She forced a nod. But she knew she'd never forget about this. Not ever.

Just then Grandad strolled down the hall, past the parlor entry. He glanced in at them briefly as he passed.

"Afternoon, dear," he said. "Afternoon, Victor."

0-0

On the way home Lydia took a detour through the graveyard.

There it was. The huge old oak tree.

Lydia approached, staring up into its branches. Leaves had fallen all over the base of the trunk, but the scrubby little weeds that grew around the tree's roots were still visible. If you squinted, they did look something like fingers.

Lydia shuddered. Then, overcome by a sudden and intense wave of rage, she reared back and kicked the trunk as hard as she possibly could. She stomped the ground at the base of the tree furiously as well, just for good measure.

Spent, panting, and trying not to cry, Lydia spun on her heel and left.

0-0

When she got back home, she found Catherine and Anne in the garden.

"Where have you been?" Catherine asked. She was sitting on the stone bench, some embroidery in her lap. Looking at her, Lydia was struck by how grown-up Catherine was beginning to look, even though she was only twelve. She wasn't so chubby anymore, and what she still had had rearranged itself in a womanly way. It made Lydia feel scrawny and childish. She tugged at her jacket.

"Out," Lydia replied shortly. Catherine rolled her eyes.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "but what on earth is your problem this weekend?"

Lydia snorted. "My problem? You have to ask? You forgot the story we heard last weekend, about Father?"

"What was wrong with the story?" Anne asked from where she sat arranging flowers on the cat's grave. Lydia wanted to say something, but bit her tongue. You'd think the cat was her baby, the way she carried on. "I thought it was a good story. Comforting."

"Comforting?" Lydia spat. "You find it comforting that our father abandoned our mother? That he was going to marry someone else?"

Anne hung her head, her cheeks pink. "Maybe not that part," she mumbled, fiddling with her flowers.

"And that wasn't quite how it was, and you know it," put in Catherine. She set aside her embroidery so that she could look Lydia in the eye. "It couldn't have been. It all ended up all right, why does it bother you so much?"

"Why _doesn't_ it bother you?!"

"Because there's nothing to be bothered _about_ ," Catherine said. "We're happy, aren't we? Mother and Father are the same people they were last week. They love one another."

"You don't know the whole story!" Lydia shouted. "They didn't tell us the whole story!"

And from there she continued to shout, her sisters flinching from her. Out poured every detail she'd heard that morning, every horrible conclusion she'd drawn. She needed them to see, to understand. That they couldn't just go back to normal. That nothing was right and never would be again. Catherine's mouth was hanging open. Anne had her eyes closed, her hands over her ears. Lydia wanted to yank them away, to _make_ her listen. But of course Father's favorite wouldn't want to.

"Liddie, stop it! Stop!" Catherine cried at last, breaking into Lydia's tirade. Quick as a blink, she leapt from her seat and slapped Lydia in the face.

All three of them gasped. Anne and Catherine in surprise, Lydia in shock and pain.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Liddie," Catherine stammered, her hands to her mouth. Anne's eyes were wide and scared as she stared up at her sisters.

Lydia, furious, rubbed at her smarting cheek. Without another word she turned and stomped her way up to the house.

0-0

Lydia stormed through the front door, closing it hard behind her. She wished she'd smacked Catherine back, if only to knock some sense into her.

"Lydia," came Mother's voice from the parlor. "Would you come in here, please?"

Had Catherine somehow beat her back to the house to tell her own version of what had just happened? Lydia straightened her blouse, fully prepared to defend herself as the victim. She stepped into the parlor and found Mother on the sofa. She was knitting. She only glanced at Lydia briefly as Lydia took a tentative seat on the sofa.

Eyes on her work, Mother said, "I heard you went out visiting today."

When Lydia didn't reply, she continued, "Your grandmother telephoned. Both of them, actually. They said you were asking questions. About-about the story your father and I told you."

"I wanted to know more," Lydia said.

"Why didn't you think to come to me?"

Lydia watched her mother's knitting needles instead of meeting her gaze. Mother sighed. "Liddie, you've been stalking about and growling at everyone since you came home," she said. "And you've hardly spoken a word to any of us. You didn't send us a letter this week from school. Why are you so angry?"

Mother's voice was so calm and kind, and filled with concern. That alone made Lydia feel guilty about the way she'd behaved. She honestly hadn't considered it might have hurt her mother's feelings.

For a minute or two the only sound in the room was the click of Mother's knitting needles. Lydia watched the stitches emerge under her quick hands.

"Did Grandmother _really_ lock you up in your room?" Lydia asked, her voice small. Maybe Grandmother was going senile. Maybe it was all an elaborate prank.

The needles stopped. Slowly Mother set her work down. She stared at it there in her lap. Lydia noticed, in that moment, that her mother was starting to look old. Something dark flitted across her expression.

"I am going to have a word with your grandmother," Mother said, annoyance in her voice. " _Both_ of them."

"No, no," said Lydia, inching closer to her on the sofa. "I'm _glad_ they told me."

"In my parents' defense," Mother said at last, picking up her needles, "it _did_ sound mad."

Lydia knew her mother was trying to shut her up, to deflect this conversation. But Lydia kept going.

"Father just left you there?" she asked. Her ears were warm, her mouth dry. "To marry a stranger? He didn't try to help?"

"That's not quite how it was—" Mother tried to say, but Lydia had heard enough. She'd pieced enough of this awful story together.

"He was going to kill himself," Lydia interrupted, her voice breaking. "To be with someone else. He'd rather have died than stayed with you."

" _Lydia_."

Lydia stopped. She'd gone too far. She knew she deserved a slap for that one. Mother almost looked like she wanted to, but was holding it back.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said in a small voice, her cheeks burning. Mother didn't say anything. Her lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes flashing in a way Lydia had never seen before.

"You do not understand how it was," Mother finally told her, her voice level. "You might believe you do, but you were not there. I'm sorry you're so hurt by all this, but you are behaving monstrously."

Lydia swallowed, chastened. She took a good long look at her mother. Mother, who had never been anything but loyal. Mother who was a fighter. Mother, who needed to believe that Father loved her. Loved all of them. Father didn't deserve her.

Lydia wished, of a sudden, that her parents had made "Victoria" her middle name. At least then there would have been something to aspire to.

Mother, knitting clutched in her lap, was watching her carefully. Lydia leaned and wrapped her in a hug. Mother was stiff, startled.

"I'm sorry I was cross, and rude," Lydia told her. "Don't worry. I'm on your side."

"Liddie, there aren't _sides_ ," Mother said gently, but Lydia was already pulling away.

Maybe Mother needed comfortable lies, but Lydia didn't. And if no one else was going to stand up for Mother, she would. Excusing herself politely, and ignoring her mother's plea to wait, Lydia went to her room.

0-0

Lydia ignored the gentle knocking at her bedroom door for as long as she could. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her narrow bed, skirts tucked about her tightly. Even with all the drama, there was still studying to do, and Lydia took her studies very seriously. She'd propped open her mathematics workbook and was doing her best to concentrate. The figures and equations were difficult, with shame about the way she'd spoken to her sisters and to Mother welling up and crashing through her thoughts often.

At last, Lydia looked up from her book and, guessing who it was, said flatly, "Come in."

As she'd expected, Father poked his head around the door before stepping fully into the room. Lydia gazed at him, meeting his eye for the first time in a while. Father looked tired and drawn. The lines around his eyes and mouth were more prominent than usual. His whole air was uncomfortable, his own look unsure as he met her stare.

"Have you a moment?" he asked politely, ridiculously. Lydia merely nodded.

"Your mother told me what happened this afternoon," he said. His tone was careful. He took a seat, uninvited, on her vanity chair. He hadn't been in her room since she moved into it last year. Somehow he looked out of place in the tiny, neat, and spare quarters under the eaves.

"Why are you so angry?" Father asked, looking worried. Looking as if he cared. He wasted no time getting to the point, she'd give him that.

Why was she angry? Lydia didn't know where to start. And he had to ask? He couldn't figure it out? Fresh anger over how obtuse her father could be welled up in her chest. Too many words and thoughts crowded her throat, so she went with the first thing that popped into her head, the thing that had been eating at her heart the most.

"Why don't you love Mother the way she loves you?" she burst out, embarrassed and angry at her own childish tone. And when she felt hot tears begin running down her face. "How could you have wanted to marry somebody else? How _could_ you?"

"Oh Liddie," Father said. "Liddie, I _do_ love your mother. More than anything. I've loved her since the first time I spoke to her."

"But you still fell in love with someone else!"

Father sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. "Not...not _really_ ," he said. "It wasn't...I mean, not exactly love."

This could have patched up everything, Lydia realized afterward. If he'd stopped right there and said that he'd told it all wrong, given her totally the wrong impression. If only he'd given her _something_ to hang on to, to redeem himself.

But he ruined it.

"It wasn't love as I love your mother," he added, "But I did care about her. It's not as though love is something you can use up on one person, Lydia."

Lydia's stomach twisted. That was the wrong answer. Absolutely the wrong answer.

"Is it true you were going to kill yourself?" she asked. "If you didn't love her, why were you going to do such an awful thing?"

Father's mouth twitched. He tugged at his tie. "I do wish your grandmother hadn't told you that," he said, a note of offense in his voice. He was stalling. Lydia just stared at him. She wiped at her damp cheeks, waiting for his answer. Finally he gave in, shoulders slumping.

"I...it was...To marry her, my heart had to stop," Father said heavily. "It was the only way I'd be free to give it to her."

Even now, even after all she'd heard, Lydia had truly thought he'd deny it. That he'd tell her Grandmamma was mixed up, confused, or hadn't heard correctly. Or at least that he'd made a horrible, terrible mistake and he was sorry. That he loved Mother best of any woman in the entire world and that she was the only one who owned his heart. That he'd never even think of giving it to someone else, beating or not. That he loved Lydia and her sisters and couldn't bear the thought of them not existing. She wanted him to say he'd been crazy and wrong and that he was sorry.

But he didn't say it. None of it. Nor did he apologize. Father hadn't apologized for what he'd done. Not _once_. Lydia's heart hardened. Listen to him. _Look at him_ , not even caring.

"You would rather have _died_?" Lydia asked, furious and embarrassed when her voice grew thin and broke. "Just to be with her?" Fresh tears started to leak out of her eyes, burning. Father made as if to reach out to her, as if he wanted to embrace her, to comfort her. Oh, he'd better not. She'd have his arm off.

" _No_ , I wouldn't rather have-I didn't-Liddie, that's not the important part of the story," he said. His tone was beseeching. "How can I make you understand? How it was, I mean?"

And he tried to tell her, but Lydia closed her ears. She wanted him to shut up. She didn't want to know how he thought it had been. He was ripping her heart out with every word, completely destroying her love for him, dismantling it bit by bit the longer he spoke. Oblivious, Father just kept talking, trying to explain himself. Reminiscing about this other woman and how wonderful she'd been, this poor tragic dead woman he'd been willing to kill himself over. While Mother had been in terrible trouble. While Mother still loved him.

"I am never going to forgive you," Lydia interrupted in the very coldest voice she could muster. Blood was rushing in her ears, her heart pounding furiously. "Maybe Mother could, but I can't. I don't care how it was. I am _never_ going to forgive you for what you did."

He stopped short, with a small gasp. He even reeled back a little in his seat, as if she'd hit him full force in the chest. Lydia watched his face fall, his eyes grow sad, disappointed. Because she was angry? Or because she refused to play along with his horrible version of reality? She stared at her bedspread, feeling her father's eyes on her.

There was a long, anguished pause. Lydia felt as though her heart had crashed into the pit of her stomach. Her palms were sweating, and she was trembling. She'd got tear stains all over her workbook. She took a deep, shuddery breath. Across the narrow room, she heard Father do the same.

"I hope you change your mind," he said at last. His voice was quiet and sad. Lydia refused to look at him. Without another word he got up and left, closing the door softly behind him.

As soon as he was gone Lydia buried her face in her hands and sobbed harder than she could ever remember doing in her life.

0-0

Lydia did not go downstairs for dinner that night, and no one came up to her room to invite her. By nine she was starving. She waited until the house was quiet, and then snuck down the back staircase toward the kitchen. Mrs. Reed had retired for the night, but the stove was still warm and there were dinner rolls on the butcher block, covered with a cloth. Lydia ate one quickly and then snatched another to take back upstairs.

On her way through the back hall, just before the second narrow set of stairs, she caught her parents' voices from the study. She glanced over her shoulder. The corridor that led to the entry was dark, and the study door was mostly closed. Only a thin shaft of light shone out around it. Curiosity won out over her better judgment, as it always did. Lydia sidled over to stand next to the door, pressed up against the wall.

After a moment of eavesdropping, she realized they were talking about her.

"She hates me," Father was saying.

"I'm sure she doesn't," Mother replied in a soothing voice.

"You didn't hear what she said," he told her. "You didn't see the look on her face. We've quarreled before, but I've never seen her like this. You should have heard her. I-I-I never thought any of the children could ever look at me like that."

"She's hurt," said Mother quietly. "She is very hurt."

"I know. I know she has a right to be. I just...I never thought she'd take the story this way."

 _As if there was another way to take it!_ Lydia clenched her fist so tightly she crushed her roll into a doughy wad.

"Nor did I," said Mother. "But she has. And she needs time to recover. But I'm sure that she will. She'll understand better, in time."

"You think so?" Father asked. He sounded so hopeful.

 _Don't hold your breath,_ Lydia thought viciously.

Figuring she'd heard enough, Lydia crept back up the two back flights of stairs to her room. She shoved her crushed roll into her mouth all in one go, almost gagged, and then swallowed. Then she set about packing her bag. The school train was leaving just after breakfast tomorrow, and she planned to request that she go alone. Mr. Reed could drive her and carry her bag just fine. And she'd be fine without company.

Lydia set out her traveling clothes on her chair. Maybe her fury would ease, and her feelings would scab over, but she wouldn't ever recover. She was certain that she would never understand, either. More than that, she was not going to forgive. How could she, when there had been no apology? Father did not deserve to be so comfortable, so pleased with himself, so loved by everyone. Lydia didn't have it in her to be totally cruel, though, no matter how angry she was and probably always would be. She wasn't sure how she'd handle herself around her father now. But she knew it would be different.

Lydia put on her nightdress and climbed into bed, knowing she was in for another sleepless night. Part of her felt true shame for how she'd spoken to her father. Not many fathers would allow their daughters to speak to them that way. But hers did. Because he knew she was right. He felt guilty.

Fresh tears started to spill at that thought. Lydia was so sick of crying. She sniffed and rolled over, letting the pillow absorb her tears. How she wished none of this had ever happened. That she could still love her father without complication. That they could have their differences and she could think him silly sometimes, but that she could still rest easy knowing her father was a good man who loved his family very much. Now it was as if some huge, essential stone in the foundation of her life had been pulled away. The sort of shift one didn't ever recover from.

At last, Lydia fell asleep, her pillow still damp.

 **The End**

 **Author's Note:** Lots of people asked for this. So many of my later stories deal with how traumatized Lydia was by hearing the Corpse Bride story, and people wanted to know about this epic shift in her relationship with her dad. I hope it answers questions and feels true and real. You can read the story "Boisduval" for details on when the cat died, if you want. Thanks, and input welcome, as ever! -PP


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